Take my cock so good, don't you.

She felt her body tremble. Her lungs refused to fill.

You want me to fuck your mouth again, Granger?

Standing in the open doorway, he pulled his wand. She watched him mutter, "Homenem Revelio," and the wand sparked blue, indicating there was someone in the room. Her.

She dug her nails into her palms, preparing herself, when his eyes flicked over the shelves, and he stepped back, quietly closing the doors behind him. As if he'd never been there at all.

It was ten minutes before she could trust her legs to move again. She grabbed several texts on Celtic magic, chest seizing, and sprinted back to the safety of her room, all earlier bravery forgotten.

Taking calming breaths, she leaned her head back on the closed door, staring at her new room. She hadn't let herself think about Draco since that night. But she had to think this through. They couldn't avoid each other forever.

Her chest twinged painfully at the thought of his pinched skin. He'd looked even worse than he did sixth year. She screwed her eyes shut, willing the image away. She had to use her brain, as her heart had failed before.

Draco did not want to harm her. In fact, it was quite clear that hurting her was one of the most traumatic things he'd ever gone through—

Her heart thumped with the possibilities, but her mind forced them aside.

She tried to put herself in Draco's position and found little fault in his logic. He'd made the safest choice that night. If he'd cued her in somehow, she might not have managed to convince Voldemort that she was being routinely attacked.

Her mind moved to the next point: Draco was actively absent — not visiting, not entering rooms she was in.

Not apologizing.

She stopped herself. Too close to her heart. Reeling back, her mind fought for logic.

Draco was either convinced she didn't want to see him, or he didn't want to see her.

That was fine. Either of those were acceptable, logical answers.

She stared down at her books, and another thought struck her.

Her greatest chance of exiting the property was under Draco Malfoy's watch.

Until she found a way around the tattoos, Hermione needed him. They couldn't keep running away from each other. Eventually, she would have to seek him out, and hope he would allow it.

Turning to her measly book collection, she grimaced at the burned titles. She set down the books from the downstairs library, and ran her fingers across the two new books. They weren't new, per se, but they hadn't been there a week ago. Solidly bound but withering with the years, they felt older than her by several lifetimes. She checked the copyright pages.

Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens
Printed London, 1861

Les Miserables
by Victor Hugo
Printed London, 1862

The heartbeat that she'd suppressed earlier thundered. First editions.

As she brought her face close to the pages, inhaling the musk of aged parchment and letterpress ink that had survived over a hundred years, she thought back to her earlier assessment.